


A Study in Sardines

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Animal!lock, Crack, Gen, I Don't Even Know, basically meaning that they're penguins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a former secret operative recently relocated to London, John Watson is sure that the human world will offer a nice reprieve from the stress of his missions. However, when he meets another penguin, a strange and wingless bird who calls himself Sherlock Holmes, he realizes that he never should have thought that his life would be any calmer in this city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In the year 1878, three years after I had left the cold plains of my native Antarctica, I became a special operative for a powerful organization based in London. The aim of this group was to liberate members of my species who had been sold on the black market to various collectors. Having completed studies in useful areas, such as the human language English and veterinary techniques, I was dispatched to begin my work. Being one of the few English-speaking penguins in the world, I travelled to many locales, finally ending up in India. However, once I had reached my destination, I found that the circumstances were even more dire than I first suspected. 

While many were saved by this mission, I was not as fortunate. As I fled the den of a particularly vicious black market dealer, I was struck in the wing by a Jezail bullet, which caused not only severe surface damage, but also grazed an artery. The dealer would have finished me off had it not been for my colleague Murray who had been standing by in case of such a situation. 

Worn with pain, and weak from the injury, I was removed with those whom I had liberated to a hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to relax in the odd bucket of ice which the doctors were able to obtain for me, when I was struck down with a fever which the penguin immune system is not equipped to battle. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself, it was determined that I was to be sent back to England and retire from my dangerous line of work. I was dispatched a month later on a ship filled with soldiers who had been fighting in the region. 

To my knowledge, I was the only educated member of my species in London, and was therefore free as air—or as free as a creature lacking in both stature and thumbs can be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that city which I had always felt most at home in. I found residence in the back room of a fish seller, from whom I was able to purchase food and shelter with funds that I had been awarded for my service. There I stayed for some time, until my landlord informed me that he required the use of his back room and that I would need to leave lest his business suffer. And so I found myself in the situation with only two options. I could either return to Antarctica or find a way to take up my own quarters in London. Choosing the latter, I began my research, though to my dismay there were few places that would take a penguin seriously as a lodger. 

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped the top of my head, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a fellow student of mine during my studies of veterinary sciences. In the old days, Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom. 

“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?”—For that was the surname which I had taken to better fit in with my classmates, and I had chosen John to complete it—he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You're as thin as lath.”

I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.

“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”

“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible for a penguin to get rooms at a reasonable price.”

“That's a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second of your kind to-day that has used that expression to me.”

“And who was the first?” I asked, eager to find one similar to myself in the city. 

“A penguin who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him. Or at least, I believe that is what he was saying.”

“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very one for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”

Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.”

“What is there against him?”

“Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. Doesn't seem to know English, though I don't suppose that would be a problem for you.”

“Not a medical student, then?” said I.

“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I have no idea what he intends to do. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic classes. He does seem to have amassed an amount of knowledge which would astonish professors.”

“Did you never ask him?” I asked.

“No; he is not easy to draw out, and truth be told I only have the most basic understanding of your language, so I wouldn't have the words.”

“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I should prefer a penguin of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of that in my career to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?”

“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round after luncheon.”

“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels.

As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the restaurant, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the penguin whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.

“You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”

“It seems to me, Stamford,” I said, looking hard at my companion's knee cap, “that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is his temper so formidable, or what is it?”

“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of the spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take a beak-full of it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”

“Very right, too.”

“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to pecking the subjects in the dissecting-rooms, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.”

“Pecking the subjects!” 

“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes. I had to help him up when the stool he was standing on toppled over.”

“And yet you say he has no aspirations of being a medical student?”

“None that I am aware of. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. Heaven knows what he is saying most of the time.” As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wind of the great hospital. It was unfamiliar ground to me, but Stamford seemed to know his way as he swiftly navigated the corridors. Though I waddled as fast as I could, he had to wait for me several times as my small legs could not keep his pace. We ascended a bleak stone stair case and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of white-washed windows. Near the further end a low arches passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with test tubes and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one creature in the room, who was facing something on a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our footsteps he glanced around and jumped off the stool on which he stood. “I've found it! I've found it,” he squawked, running towards us with a test tube clamped in his beak, spilling surprisingly little of the liquid inside. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hoemoglobin and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a new migratory path of sardines, greater delight could not have shone on his features. 

“Watson, Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.

“How are you?” he asked cordially, dipping his head awkwardly while he tried not to spill the re-agent. Finally, he had the presence of mind to clasp it between his feet so that he could squawk properly. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.” 

“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

“Never mind,” squawked he, clacking his beak in amusement. “The question now is about hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mind?”

“It is interesting, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically--”

“Why, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come over here now!” He waddled behind me and pushed me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us have some fresh blood,” he squawked, picking up a long bodkin from the floor and stabbing himself in the foot with it, and drawing off the resulting blood in a chemical pipette. “Now, I add this blood to a litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.” After he finished, he scrambled over to the stool and hopped in vain, trying to get a grip on the rungs. After a few moments, Stamfort came over and lifted the wingless bird onto the stool. I stood back to see exactly what he was doing. On the table were a few white crystals, which he added to the water on the floor below. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar. 

He clacked his beak in delight, hopping in place in a strange sort of dance. “What do you think of that?”

“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.

“Beautiful! Beautiful! The old Guicaum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes.”

“Indeed!” I murmured. “So you are a student of human law?”

“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point.” He ignored my question and continued to squawk excitedly, his pitch slowly rising from the low timbre he seemed to force himself to speak in around humans. “A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many and expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he did his best to bow without falling off the table, which he only managed marginally, and was soon scrambling to catch himself. 

“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm.

“I could name a score of cases in which this test would have been decisive.” 

“From what I can tell, he seems to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford to me with a laugh. He then turned to Holmes. “You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police News of the Past.'”

Holmes looked at the human quizzically, clearly completely unaware of what my companion was trying to say. I quickly translated into our more familiar tongue. 

“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock Holmes excitedly once he knew the meaning. Before speaking again, he took a plaster off the table and clumsily applied it to the cut on his foot. “I have to be careful, for I dabble with poisons a good deal.” On closer examination of his feet, I could see the evidence of this in various plasters and acid stains. 

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, looking at me as an indication to translate for the strange scientist. I obliged, and then waited for him to continue. “My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I better bring you together.”

Holmes looked from me to Stamford quizzically. “I asked for no such thing. I asked for a replenishment of the chemicals that I have run out of during the course of this project.”

I translated back for Stamford, who immediately directed his gaze at his shoes in embarrassment. “I suppose I'm not as proficient in your language as I believed.” 

“Nevertheless,” Holmes continued, “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street which would suit two well. You don't mind the smell of exotic fish, I hope.”

“I am a connoisseur myself,” I answered.

“That's good. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at time, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. This London air is less than ideal for my temperament. What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two birds to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. “I object to rows because my nerves are shaken,” I said, “and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I have an irrational fear of any creature, living or dead, above six feet in height. I have another set of vices when I am well, but those are the principal ones at present.”

“Do you include drumming in your category of rows?” he asked.

“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well played tattoo is a treat for the gods—a badly played one--” 

“Oh, that's all right,” he squawked merrily. “I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you.”

“When shall we see them?”

“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle everything,” he answered.

“All right—noon exactly,” said I, nodding at him, for he had no wings to shake in the human tradition for making an agreement. 

“And before you would go, would you perhaps ask your friend to put me back on my stool?” For in the course of our conversation, he had fallen heavily to the floor in his excitement. 

I relayed the message to Stamford, who obligingly placed Holmes back on his stool. 

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards my hotel. 

“By the way,” I aksed suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?”

My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That's just what I've gathered is a little peculiarity of his,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”

“Oh! A mystery is it?” I cried, excited at the prospect. “This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The proper study of penguin-kind is a penguin,' you know.”

“You must study him then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. “You'll find him a knotty problem though. I'll wager he learns more about you than you about him. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I answered, and waddled on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance and only species-companion in the city.


	2. The Science of Deduction

We met the next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished with chairs just low enough that neither of us would have any trouble jumping onto them, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded up one the spot, and we at once entered into possession. That very evening I took up residence with the few items I called my own, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus, which were carried in by two very scared looking humans. I could not blame them, for whenever they paused under the weight of the furniture, Holmes would nip at their heels and squawk loudly. It was a small mercy for them that they could not understand what he was saying. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to best advantage, or rather I was employed in such a manner while Holmes gave me instructions, having no wings to manipulate the objects himself. 

Holmes, in spite of his slight temper, was certainly not a difficult bird to live with. He was quite in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him to the lowest portions of the City, and from which he often came back with a quiet gripe about the lack of rights that our kind possessed in human cities. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night, and refusing even the most expensive fish that our kindly landlady offered him. On these occasions I have noticed a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, reminiscent of that in some of the penguins that I had rescued who longed for their native Antarctica, to the point that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had he been able to administer it to himself. 

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very appearance was such to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was hardly in excess of a foot in a half, and had such a build that his body seemed a good deal smaller, though he still managed to dominate every room he entered. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded, and his thin, hawk-like beak gave his whole expression and air of alertness and decision. His feet and beak were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulate his fragile philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this bird stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgement, however, be it remembered, how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the water was exceptionally cool and genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me to break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion. 

He was not studying any form of medicine, whether it be human or penguin. He had himself, in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursed any course which might fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him and entrance into the learned world, and indeed he did not seem to have made an effort at all to learn a human language which might give him access to this knowledge, beyond perhaps the most colorful of expletives heard in the lower areas of the city. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no creature would work so hard to attain such precise information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No creature, and certainly not one as inherently intelligent as the penguin, burdens his mind with small matters unless he as some very good reason for doing so. 

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy, and politics he appeared to know next to nothing, including details such as the existence fiction or the prime minister. Upon my quoting of Thomas Carlyle, a favorite of mine while I was recuperating from my injuries, he inquired in the naivest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican theory and of the composition of the solar system. That any civilized and even lightly learned creature in this nineteenth century should not bet aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it. 

“You appear to be astonished,” he said, amused at my expression of surpise. “Now that I know it I shall do my best to forget it.”

“To forget it!”

“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a bird's brain originally is like a cave on a lonely iceberg, and when one finds it, one can stock it with any sorts of fish one pleases. A fool takes in even the smallest and boniest fish that he comes across, so that the things that might be useful to him get crowded out, or at best jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has difficulty sniffing it out. And slowly the fish begin to rot and all is ruined, and the fool doesn't even have the useless things in his head anymore. How the clever bird is very careful indeed as to which fish he chooses. He will have nothing but those fish that will last the longest and feed him the most, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that the cave has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you must forget something that you know before, or your iceberg will sink. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

“But the Solar System!” I protested.

“What he deuce is it to me?” he interrupted impatiently; “you say that we go round the sun. if we went round the moon or colossal, carnivorous snowflake it would not make any difference to me or my work.” 

“Though perhaps you would be eaten by the snowflake if that were the case.”

“Then I believe we would all have much larger problems to worry about than astronomy,” he replied sulkily. 

I was on the point of asking him what exactly his work might be, but my unwelcome comment had created a chill in the room unpleasant for even a penguin, and I felt that the question would not be received gracefully. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavored to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore all knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shown men that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil in my beak and jotted them down as best I could. I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it, not only for its intelligence and thoroughness, but also because it was the first time I had managed to use a pencil without snapping it in half. It ran this way:

Sherlock Holmes: His limits  
1 Knowledge of Literature—Nil. Unclear if he is aware that such a thing exists.  
2 Philosophy—Nil.  
3 Astronomy—Nil. Seems to believe that the universe is populated with various natural phenomena from the arctic.   
4 Politics—Nil. Again, seems to be unaware of such an institution  
5 Human language—Very little beyond quite a few choice words, many of which even I was previously unfamiliar with.   
6 Botany—Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.  
7 Geology—practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other.   
8 Chemistry—profound  
9 Anatomy—accurate, but unsystematic.   
10 Sensational Literature—immense. He appears to know every detail of every human horror perpetrated in the century. However, his knowledge of penguin affairs seems to have been crowded out of his ice cave by this.   
11 Plays the drums fairly well, when careful not to put a hole through the heads with his beak. Also attempts the violin, with varying results.   
12 Is excellent as fending off all sorts of martial arts using only his beak  
13 Has a good practical knowledge of British law. 

When I had got so far in my list, I threw it into the fire in despair. “If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them all,” I said to myself, “I may as well give up the attempt at once.”

I see that I have alluded above to his powers on the drums and questionable powers on the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well because at my request he played some complicated arrangements of his own making reminiscent of the winter sounds of our native continent. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Hopping around in a corner, he would kick at the drums without any sort of rhythm in mind, or climb on the violin in an attempt to make a sound. Occasionally these were lovely musical ideas, but more often were muddled and dissonant. I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favorite tattoos as a slight compensation for the trial upon my patience. 

During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to think that my companion was as lonely a bird as I was myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of society. In fact, the only characteristic that they seemed to share was an inability to understand is squawking. There was one little, sallow, rat-faced, dark-eyes fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a younger girl called, fashionably dress, and stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely followed by a slip-shod elderly woman. On another occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion; and on another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals had an interview with Sherlock Holmes, I was enlisted as a translator, which seemed to please both parties, as the squawking of a penguin is a complex language even for one born of the correct species to understand it. However, I was never given a clue as to the nature of these discussions, and even though I heard every word, the lack of context left me as confused as ever by my flatmate. 

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast of cold fish and tea, a human drink that he seemed to harbor a liking for against all odds. The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my own fish prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of penguin-kind I rang the bell and gave a curt squawk to tell her that I was ready. Then I began to look over a magazine on the table and attempted to while away the time with it, while my companion munched silently on at his cod. One of the articles had a shaky pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it.

The article was little more than an advertisement for a wedding occurring later in the week, but a story directly below it caught my attention more than the nuptials of a human couple ever could. Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,” and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic examination of all that came his way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the deduction appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man's inmost thoughts. Deceit according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the processes by which he had arrived at them they might as well consider him a necromancer. I could not help but agree, as several conclusions seemed to be derived from absolute non sequiturs, and I could only guess that the article was a feature from a newspaper in a different country and had been translated rather ineptly. 

“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “likely logician could infer the possibly of Atlantic or Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. All known life is a great courses, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long life to achieve the highest possible perfection long enough. Before turning to those mortal and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems. He was the man at a glance, meeting of fellow human beings, and learn to distinguish the history of profession or trade he belongs to. Puerile as such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt cuffs—each of these things will be clearly reveled by his calling. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.”

“What ineffable twaddle!” I squawked, slapping the magazine down on the table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.” 

“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Why, this article,” I squawked, jabbing at it with my beak. “I see that you have not read it, and I do not recommend that you do. I don't deny that it is smartly written, to an extend. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study, and does not seem to have the decency to learn English before he publishes in a London periodical. It is hardly practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travelers, after retaining the services of a competent translator. I would lay a thousand to one against him.”

“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked more calmly than I had ever known him to act. “As for the article I wrote it myself.”

“You!”

“Yes, with the help of Stamford, as learning to write in a human language takes up far to much space in my mind. I have a turn for observation and for deduction. The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical, are really extremely practical—so practical that I depend upon them for my fish.”

“And how?” I asked involuntarily.

“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you understand what that is. Here in London there are lots of government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault the come to me, and I managed to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance about misdeed, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your beak, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade is a well known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here.”

“And these other people?”

“They are sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something, and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.”  
“But do you mean to say,” I squawked, “that without leaving your room you can unravel some know which other creatures can make nothing of, although they have seen every detail for themselves? And all this without speaking a word of a common language?”

“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way, and it is remarkable how much meaning one can get across with well placed gestures. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your scorn are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan.” 

“You were told, no doubt. I do not think that my efforts would have gone completely unnoticed in the penguin community.”

“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long havit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of the intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran, 'Here is a penguin of a medical type, but with an air of an adventurer. Clearly in the employ of an agency. He has just come from the tropics, for his feathers are thinning, though not underneath his wings, which clearly means that the molting is a result of sun exposure. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his scars clearly say. His left wing as been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner, and there is a clear lack of plumage where the injury occurred. Where in the tropics could a penguin possibly justify being, and where could he get himself so injured? Clearly in Afghanistan, a country famous for the trafficking of our kind.' The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you cam from Afghanistan, and you were astonished.”

“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said. “You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea such individuals did exist outside of stories.”

Sherlock Holmes fell off his chair and attempted to pass it off as looking for a paper on the floor. “I have never heard of the Dupin. Is he another of our kind?”

“No, he is a human.”

“Ah. Clearly fictional, then.”

“You give them so little credit.”

“I give them exactly as much as I believe they deserve. They are showy and superficial, the whole race.”

“But have you read Gaboriau's works?” I asked. “Have you not heard of the stories of Lecoq?”

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “I have no time for the fantasies of humans. They are written by those with no right to be giving the public an idea of what true deduction is.” 

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and stood looking out into the busy street. “This bird may be very clever,” I said to myself, “but he is certainly very conceited.” 

“There are no crimes and no criminals in these days,” he said, querulously. “What is the use of having brains our profession. I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No creature lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a human at Scotland yard can see through it.”

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I was no human, clearly, but I harbored an affection for them, and was not pleased to hear them spoken of in this way. I thought it best to change the topic.

“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked, flapping a wing at a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently a bearer of a message.

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” squawked Sherlock Holmes.

“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He knows that I cannot verify his guess.”

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair. 

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and proffering the letter so that my companion could clamp his beak around it. I repeated the phrase quietly in our native language in an attempt to be helpful, but he was already taking the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little thought of this when he made that random shot. “May I ask, sir,” I said, in the blandest voice I could, “what your trade may be?”

“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, after recovering from the shock of hearing a bird speak his language. “Uniform away for repairs.”

“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my companion.

“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right, sir.”

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was gone.


End file.
